


Little Alejandra

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Fetish, Hollywood, Hypnotism, Los Angeles, Maternal Instinct, Mexican Character, Porn With Plot, Shameless Smut, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-20 16:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21059345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: A wealthy billionaire sponsors a wrestling TV show… so he can hypnotize the female wrestlers and then satisfy a sexist fetish.





	1. Men are Hypnotized by the Butts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sylvian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvian/gifts).

> A reader recently requested "something with female wrestlers"...

** **

** _Los Angeles, 2010_ **

“**_LAAADIES AND GEEEENTLEMEN!!!_**” Corey’s voice booms over the loudspeakers. “**_IN THIS CORNER, WEIGHING ONE TWENTY-ONE OF MEXICAN-AMERICAN MUSCLE… ITS HOT TAMALE!!!_**”

That’s my cue. _Let’s do this, Francisca,_ I think to myself. _¡Tiempo de la funcion!_

As the spotlights snap on, I skip out along the walkway, making sure to swing my hips and twirl my prop basket. I’m in my costume: tiny tiny **_tiny_** jean shorts, a plaid, belly knotted, shirt tied way up so you can see my bare midriff, a straw cowboy hat, and heavy boots. My brown hair is tied up in two tight, braided pigtails, and I can feel them swinging back and forth as I move. I act like a fifth grader but look like a _naco_ pinup from a slutty Farmer’s Almanac.

The crowd bursts into applause and hoots of appreciation. I blow innocent kisses to my male fans, making sure to wiggle my tush just a little as I do. Then, I climb into the ring, blowing one last kiss into the camera filming me. That shot’s for you, Bernie.

Corey Lindowski, aka “Victor the Voice” is in the center of the ring, waiting for me. As usual, he’s in his ink-black tux, confidently holding his wireless mike in his right hand. He gives me a few seconds to skip around the ring before he resumes his narration.

“**_NOW MOST OF YOU AFW FANS KNOW,_**” he rumbles, “**_THAT RECENTLY POOR TAMALE HERE WAS PUT THROUGH A TERRIBLE ORDEAL._**”

That’s my next cue. I scurry to Corey’s side, and lean forward towards his mike. I make sure to stand just so, with my legs together and my butt sticking out, just like Amber my trainer taught me.

“**_THAT’S RIGHT, VIC,_**” I chime in. Every time I hear my voice amplified through the mike, it always makes me jump a little. “**_I TRAVEL ALL THE WAY FROM SAN JUAN TO FIND MY POOR PAPA. BUT HE WAS… how you say… KIDNAPPED!!!_**”

The crowd boos. I’m never sure if they’re booing me or the villains of the storyline.

“**_BUT YOU FOUGHT KNAVA THE SLAVA, AND YOU WON HIM BACK, DIDN’T YOU?_**” Corey asks me.

“**_S_****_Í S_****_Í, AMIGO!_**” I trill. Whenever I give my dialog, I have to remember to pump up the Mexican accent. Especially on the Spanish words.

The crowd applauds, mildly. But the clapping dies down as Corey raises his hand.

“**_WELL… I’M SORRY TO TELL YOU THAT I HAVE BAAAD NEWS, TAMALE,_**” he says gravely.

I gasp, putting both hands on my cheeks.

“**_WHAT YOU DIDN’T KNOW,_**” Corey cries, “**_IS THAT YOUR BELOVED PAPA HAS A… GAMBLING PROBLEM!!!_**”

The audience murmurs and laughs. I pretend to look shocked to the core.

The spotlight careens away from me, landing on Zeek, sitting just outside the ring. Zeek, playing Pappy, mimes a sorrowful expression. “**_S_****_Í, ITS TRUE, TAMALE,_**” he says sadly into his body mike. “**_I THINK I MIGHTA LOST THE FAMILY FARM._**”

The audience boos without being prompted.

“**_DIOS M_****_ÍO!_**” I wail, dramatically covering my eyes with the back of my hand.

“**_YES, FOLKS,_**” Corey steps in. “**_UNLESS TAMALE CAN DO SOMETHING HERE, IT LOOKS LIKE THE OLD FARM IS NOW THE PROPERTY OF… THE DASTARDLY DON AND HIS HENCHWOMAN!_**”

Spotlight up on the far side of the studio. There, on the opposite walkway, are Joe, playing Don Gorgoria, our villainous 1930’s style gang boss, and Danica, playing his “henchwoman,” Ethel the Enforcer. Joe is in a full three-piece, pinstripe suit, complete with fedora and spats. Danica has matching duds, except her outfit shows off a lot of skin. A **_LOT_** of skin.

The audience boos even harder at our villains. Joe waves the prop deed over his head, openly gloating.

“**_AY CARAMBA, VINCE,_**” I squeal, “**_WHADDA I DO???_**”

I swear… my character’s a complete idiot.

“**_YOU WANT YOUR LOUSY, STINKIN’ FARM BACK?_**” Danica roars, strutting up to the ring. “**_WELL, THEN, YOU ‘N ME HAVE A SCORE TO SETTLE!!!_**”

I pretend to fret while Danica slips into the ring, tossing away her fedora. Then she charges straight at me, fake-grabbing me by the ears, bouncing my forehead off her knee, then throwing me backwards.

I neatly land on my back, making sure to look like I’m in pain. The audience roars.

*********

The next day, its back to the gym. Our show, American Freedom Wrestling (or “AFW” to our fans) tapes every Tuesday. Then from Wednesday to Monday, we performers work out and rehearse like crazy. I was unprepared for the sheer amount of fucking work this TV show demands.

I pull into the parking lot of Baxter’s Training and Fitness, a private workout facility for AFW’s performers. We have to rent a private gym. Now that our show has gone into Season Three, our prominent cast can’t work out in public anymore. Besides, everyone on the show must be monitored by their own private trainer. I only joined the show this season; I still can’t get over these crazy perks.

I scribble my name on the sign-in sheet: _Francisca Cruz_. That has the ring of a movie star, don’t you think?

Inside Baxter’s, most of the cast is already grunting and sweating on the cardio machines. I flash a smile at Danica – already on a treadmill – but she doesn’t smile back. Is she mad at me? Or just concentrating on her heartrate? Oh, man.

I’m Mexican-American, first generation. And maybe its just me, but I nervously note that I’m the only Hispanic member of our mostly-white cast. That’s not to say that I feel like this group is racist or anything. People here are always polite… but never inviting. I never get the jokes they tell, and conversations tend to die off when I enter a room. Maybe I’m doing something wrong?

I push aside my worries and hurry to the locker room. Its gonna be a long day. I can already tell.

*********

In fifteen minutes, I’m in my workout clothes, mostly old shorts and a sports bra, plus my custom running shoes. I love these shoes. I don’t know what they did to make the insoles, but I feel like I’m running on clouds whenever I take them for a whirl.

As I’m hurrying to grab the last Stairmaster, Amber, my AFW-assigned personal trainer, appears from no-where. She snaps her fingers and points at me when our eyes meet.

_H__íjole_, Amber makes me nervous. She’s very pretty, but _por Dios_, she always looks stressed-out and jumpy, like she expects a gun to go off at any second. I’ve never once seen her crack a smile. Plus, she’s superjaded and cynical. I can’t imagine her having any fun, like, under any circumstances. She probably stresses and complains while having sex… assuming she ever has sex…

“Hi, Amber!” I say brightly. Please, God, let her be in a good mood?

“Yo, Francisca,” Amber grunts. She’s clutching that clipboard. She loves that clipboard. “You got a minute?”

This is a rhetorical question. “Uh… sure, Am,” I reply, wondering if I’m in trouble.

“Follow me,” Amber says, jerking her head.

*********

Amber leads me towards a table outside the juice bar. She sits down. Uh-oh.

A sit-down means a talk. A talk means I’m about to get notes from the network execs. Notes from the network execs means there’s something they don’t like about my performance.

_Dulce Jes__ús._ I just got cast on this show! I’ve only filmed three episodes! Am I getting fired **_already?_**

I sit across from Amber, and I notice she doesn’t offer to buy me a protein mix. She’s rereading her clipboard, a frown on her face.

“Okay…” my trainer finally says, “we got your ratings from last night’s taping.”

I hold my breath.

“You’re doing pretty good,” Amber says, her voice toneless. “The audience likes your character and your body. But the execs want some fine-tuning.”

I exhale slowly. This doesn’t sound so terrible.

“You’ll have to work with Cindy on your line delivery,” Amber tells me. Cindy is our acting coach. You’d think that a wrestling show wouldn’t need a coach, ‘cause we’re not exactly doing Shakespeare in the Park, right? But if Cindy can help me breathe more life into Hot Tamale, I’m all for it.

“But most importantly,” continues Amber, “we need to enhance your workouts.”

“**_¡Jesucristo!_**” I spit before I can stop myself.

Amber looks up at me, not amused.

“_Follame_ \- I’m already working out **_six hours a day!_**” I exclaim belligerently. “What more do the _empresarios_ want?”

Inside, I’m cringing. I forgot to tell you… I have an ugly temper.

Its my momma’s fault, you know. Papa always said, I have the spicy Mexican temper of my mom. _Someday, it will get you in trouble!_ he warned me every day in high school.

I take a second to wrestle my demons, then compose myself. “Sorry,” I say in a clipped voice. “What does the network want?”

Amber frowns, but thankfully doesn’t make a scene. “I said **_enhance_** your workouts, Francisca. You’ve got a great body, and no-one doubts that you work hard. We just have to alter your focus, is all.”

Oh.

“Okay,” I say, hoping I sound undaunted. “Enhance… like how?”

Amber slides her clipboard towards me across the table. I look down, and I see a number of bar graphs, plus color photos of other female wrestlers on the show.

“Look,” Amber says, leaning forward. “You know what Network Research concluded makes for good female wrestling?”

“_No s__é,_” I shrug. “Better wrestling moves?”

“No,” Amber says dryly. “Strangely, our male viewers don’t care about that. What they do want to see, however, are butts and abs.”

“Butts and…?” I numbly repeat.

“Lookie here,” grumbles Amber, and she shifts the papers around. Now I’m staring at two photos, both of AFW’s star leading lady, Ivy Démarche. Known as Warrioress to her fans. Both photo show Ivy in costume, in the ring. Once photo is from the front, the other from behind.

Whenever people hear the phrase **_Fiery Redhead_**, they’re probably thinking of Ivy. She’s unspeakably beautiful, with a soft complexion that should get her into makeup ads. Classic White Lady Gorgeous. She’s got the faint cheeks, the rose lips, bright eyes of green-blue, teeth whiter than anyone I’ve ever seen. Her thick, rust-colored hair tumbles down her head like a river of lava, and I swear you can see the air sparkle when she tosses it about. In the ring, of course, she bounds it up in a tight, tight bun, but for publicity shots, she lets it curl and drape about her shoulders. So gorgeous.

Ivy got where she is, however, because of her muscle-clad body. Seriously, the woman is like someone melded a Barbie doll with a superhero. She’s packed with muscles, and they bristle whenever she moves. She can pull off the Night at the Opera look if you put her in an evening gown, but in her wrestling outfit, she looks buff and scary.

“See?” asks Amber, pointing. “Now look at Ivy’s abs, here. See?”

Ivy is wearing a tight sports bra and custom-fit microshorts. Her pumped abs are on full display.

Amber nods in admiration. “Rock-**_hard_**. You can count the six-pack. See how the sweat shines on her when she’s all worked up? That’s what the ratings boys call a ‘rock sweat.’ We gotta get that look on you.”

I stare at Ivy’s abs, feeling depressed. _Dios m__ío_, I take advanced crunch classes twice a week! My abs are tight, but… I gotta get to **_superhuman_** levels of excellence? Not all of us are genetically-bred megafitness hotties like Ivy, you know.

“You’ll get there,” Amber assures me. “Now… look at this. This is the more important thing.” She pushes the second photo front and center.

This picture depicts Ivy from behind. She’s standing straight and tall, her fists on her hips, her feet wide apart. Her miniscule red spandex shorts are covering her buttocks and hips **_only_**, for her legs are completely bare. Man, her butt looks sculpted. This photo is 2D, but I’d swear those two perfectly-carved hammies are popping out at me in 3D. Its impossible to tear your eyes away from them.

“Yeah, you get it,” Amber nods, seeing my reaction. “Ivy’s butt is the best in the biz. She’s highest rated among the fans because-“

“Because of **_this?_**” I scowl. “Com’on. Ivy went to acting school. She was a beauty pageant winner. And made the cover of the SI Swimsuit Edition. She’s the whole package!”

“All true,” my fitness coach agrees. “But you know what the focus groups said?”

She hands me a printed sheet of statistics. I stare at it, unable to make sense of the numerical gobbledygook.

“The core fans – that is, males with a high school degree or less, ages 18 to 35 – all love Ivy because of her tight ass. Here’s a quote…” Amber clears her throat, taking the paper back from me. “_’I love Warrioress because she’s got the hottest booty. Anytime she goes in the ring, I wanna squeeze it.’_ See?”

“I get it,” I begrudgingly reply. Now I feel guilty for grabbing that donut this morning.

“The network boys have run the research,” Amber says, collecting her papers. “Men watch AFW for different reasons. They like the male wrestlers for the macho displays of dominance. But they like the females for your bodies. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it is. Focus groups say they want female wrestlers who are lean but visually strong. They don’t like big tits, because that makes a woman look silly as a wrestler. So B or C cups only, nothing bigger. But to compensate for smaller breasts sizes, the audience wants big, muscle-bound butts. Those butts are what give us our ratings. Men are hypnotized by the butts.”

“I thought… we might be worried about better fight chorography,” I offer weakly.

“Oh, you must have us confused with one of those high-class wrestling shows,” Amber replies dryly. “Here at AFW, we’re down to the bottom line. Butts and abs.”

I must look absolutely dismayed, because Amber gives me a pointed look. “Hey, Francisca,” she clucks. “Relax. You still tested high. We’re just gonna narrow your diet and shift your workout focus, is all.”

“Narrow my diet?!? _¿Perd__óneme?_” I bark.

You don’t mess with a Mexican lady’s food, honey. That’s poking a sleeping bear.

But Amber is unmoved. “You want to be a wrestler?” she asks me, her gaze cool. “Then no more sugary sodas for you. All you’re gonna dine on from now on is steamed fish, brown rice, and bottled water.”

A hundred rude retorts logjam behind my lips. Its takes sheer force of will to swallow them all. I feel my cheeks burn.

“The other girls are already on this diet,” says Amber warningly. “So I suggest you get used to it. The other girls have also tripled their abs, crunches, and squats. They’re gonna have amazing butts.”

I scowl, but force myself to glance across the gym floor. My trainer is right. All the other women wrestlers are furiously working away on their gluties.

And there, not fifty feet away, I can see Ivy the Goddess herself, grimacing as she is doing her heavy-lift squats. Nothing tones the butt like squats. Rumor has it that she does two hundred squats a day.

**_This_** is what the show requires, huh?

_Follame_.

Well, I didn’t move all the way up here from Guadalajara just to wash out. If AFW needs rock-hard butts, I’m all in.

I grit my teeth.

“Where do we begin?” I ask.

*********

American Freedom Wrestling is a show teetering on the edge of cancelation. Oh, the show started off with a bang, raking in a 5.3 million audience and 14% share… but began falling off shortly after that. We’re now in the start of our third season, and already the numbers are dreadful.

I can’t believe it! I’m just a year out of communications school, barely twenty-one years old, right? I came out to LA, auditioned for a ton of stuff, and lo and behold, landed one of the rookie slots on AFW. I’d never heard of the show until I got called in. Apparently, the producers thought I had that sexy “Latina Girl” look… whatever that is… and the fact that I was a track and field star gave my body that athletic look they wanted. I got the job, and immediately went to wrestling school.

I’ve only taped three shows. But already I’m getting recognized when I go to the mall, which is kinda nice. And my agent tells me there was a bunch of “Hot Tamale” fansites cropping up around the world.

But, Jesus, what if we get **_canceled?_** I don’t know if I could take that. I’m lucky to have this job as it is.

*********

For the rest of the day, I exercise like a slave. I hit cardio, weights, yoga, swimming, and then doing the full routine all over again. With Amber shouting at me, I struggle to do a hundred squats with ninety pounds on the bar. Its fucking hard! I’m worried I’ll pull something.

“Not bad,” Amber says tonelessly when, gasping, I put the bar back into its safety harness. “But I think you can do a higher weight. We’ll up you to one-ten tomorrow, eh?”

I wheeze in protest.

“You think so too? Great,” grunts Amber, filling out her clipboard. “Now, grab two forty-five plates, will ya? You still owe me crunches.”

*********

Its nearly four PM when I escape from my personal trainer and crawl back into the locker room. I strip off my stinky clothes and then stagger into the sauna. I should shower off, but… ugh… I just don’t care.

Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan, I ache all over. Like, **_ALL OVER_**. My legs are so sore, I don’t know if I can climb into my car. My abs feel like they’re about to snap in two. And don’t ask about my butt. Just don’t ask.

I have the sauna to myself. _Gracias a Dios_.

Wincing, I start to lower myself onto the bench platform. Ohhh, man, I’ve got to take this slow. Who knew your legs could hate the idea of sitting down so much?

As I groan, my towel slips off my nude, slippery body. I curse as it lies in a crumpled heap by my heels.

Aw, fuck. I could stoop lower to pick it up… but its just not worth the extra pain. I feel my naked rear touch the hot bench, and that’s it. **_I’m sitting._** I ain’t getting up for a while.

As my muscles relax, I feel an exhausted immobility claim me. Its like my body has called a time-out.

_Menos mal_…! Is every day gonna be like this? I might have to think about-

The door to the sauna opens, and I feel a flash of raw horror! Its too late to grab my towel! _Mierda!_

Ivy, followed by Chrissy Sinclaire, another AFW wrestler, enter the little wooden room. Both women are gleaming with sweat, with their own towels tightly wrapped about their bodies. They’re chatting gaily as the enter. Their eyes fall on me.

I cringe. There’s nothing like that moment when your co-workers see you butt-naked, after all.

The two ladies exchange a glance, then drop their conversation.

Typical.

“Hi… uh, Francisca?” Ivy smiles politely. She seems unperturbed by my awkward nudity.

“Hi guys,” I croak. I hurt too much to smile back.

Ivy laughs softly. “Let me guess,” she chuckles. “They assigned Angie as your trainer? She was my trainer, first season.”

The redhead closes the sauna door, making sure the handle clicks shut firmly.

“Angie’s like this rite of passage for the AFW rookies,” Chrissy says haughtily. “Like, the manager’s office wants all the fresh meat to suffer unnecessarily, so they pair you with that uptight bitch.”

Ivy laughs again. “Oh, Angie’s not that bad. You’re just pissed that you’ve been scripted to lose your next two matches.”

The two ladies settle in opposite me. Chrissy removes her towel, folding it onto the seat before she plants her butt. I have a chance to inspect that posterior, and yes, its **_mighty_** firm. Angie was right about that much.

Chrissy is very pretty. Not a glamor queen like Ivy, but still a cutie. She has faintly Asian features, with pale skin, bewitching brown eyes, and the thinnest nose I’ve ever seen. Her character is Lady Fang, a campy vampire knock-off, and Chrissy can make that shit work because she has this exotic beauty and intense stare that is very striking. I’m sure she has a devoted following of horny fanboys.

“So,” Ivy says to me in a cheerful tone, “how do you like AFW so far?”

“Ugghhh…” I groan. “Its nice. …yeeeeah…”

“The poor girl’s almost dead,” Chrissy remarks.

Ivy nodded. “Management keeps raising the workout bar higher. If we go into Season Four, all the new girls are gonna die while in basic training.”

“We’re not going to make it to Season Four,” says Chrissy, looking sour. “Its just not gonna happen. I know it.”

“You don’t know that,” Ivy pushes back.

“**_Please_**,” her companion says, rolling her eyes. “The storylines this season are even dumber than last year! And we had the alien invasion last year!”

“That was pretty stupid,” admits Ivy.

“You,” Chrissy says, snapping her fingers at me. “You… you’re that… Hot Tamale, right? The sexy South American farmhand, or something?”

“Mexican,” I barely manage.

“Right, whatever,” Chrissy snorts, leaning back and closing her eyes. “So have you seen next week’s script? My character is supposed to go up against your character in the ring. Fine. Except that when I see you, I decide that I have this lesbian thing for you – or something – and I wind up using my vampire stare to hypnotize you.”

“Huh,” Ivy says diplomatically. She’s looking back and forth between me and Chrissy.

“Then Tamale here is my willing slave-warrior or whatevs for the next couple of episodes,” Chrissy says. The disgust in her voice is thick. “She fights my enemies, acts as my footstool, puts the Dracula cape on my shoulders, stupid shit like that. Before she’s rescued by some dumb man. Macho bullshit, idiot plotline.”

Despite my agony, I listen in horror. **_This_** is what I have to look forward to? **_¿Neta?_**

Ivy seems to guess my dismay. “Hey, don’t worry,” she tells me. “They change the scripts all the time here. And this way, you’ll get to play a villain for an episode or so.”

Chrissy snorts again. “Oh, you didn’t tell her the best part,” she says.

I cough, then force myself to say: “What’s the best part?”

Ivy casts her eyes down. “Don’t,” she implores Chrissy.

But now my temper is roused. I sit up, ignoring my aches and bruises. “What’s the best part?” I say angrily.

Chrissy locks eyes on me. “You know what happens to a female wrestler after their show is canceled?”

I have no idea.

“They go **_no-where_**, that’s what,” growls Chrissy, reclining her head again. “Oh, male wrestlers always get recast as gangsters or marines or superheroes or gym spokesmen. But women? No-one wants to hire ex-female wrestlers. Casting agents want soft, curvy bodies. Or anorexic twig bodies. But show them a woman with muscles? They run away screaming.”

“That’s not true,” Ivy protests.

“No?” rebounds Chrissy. “Remember Jessica McIver, from last season? She up and quit, and have you seen her iMDB page lately? Nada. The girl can’t get cast in her own family YouTube videos. Ex-female wrestlers are **_toxic_**.”

“So enjoy your brief time on this shitty show,” Chrissy tells me, a funk in her voice. “This will be your last stop in Hollywood, girl. It’s the last stop for all of us.”

I look at Ivy, uncertain what to think. Could Chrissy be right? Is AFW a career-ender? I just got to Hollywood!

Ivy flashes a small but weak smile. “Don’t listen to Chrissy; she’s just in a bitchy mood.”

“By the way, Francisca,” our star adds, “you have a beautiful body. I really admire your abs.”

“…thanks,” I say, feeling strangely grateful.

*********


	2. Tex Malone at the UpFront

** **

** _One month later…_ **

We’ve taped seven shows now. Sure enough, Hot Tamale went up against Lady Fang and was hypnotized by the vampire. Under Fang’s control, Bella became a villainess for an episode, which… I’ll grudgingly admit… was fun. But when Fang was defeated by Ninja Mistress, Tamale was set free. Now she’s searching for her beloved Pappy, who was kidnapped by… eh, you get the picture.

I’m not sure the studio audience is getting into our hokey plotlines… you can never tell. The ratings for this season, however, keep dropping.

But in other news: Amber has put me on a _loco_-hard regime of squats, stairclimbs, and turbo crunches. My abs are harder than oak, and look about as polished. And my butt? Its literally solid muscle. You could bounce a quarter off my ass and the ricochet might take someone’s eye out. I think I look like a mutant freak, but everyone else has been complimenting me on my muscular posterior.

But if I have to eat one more meal of steamed fish, brown rice, and bottled water, I swear I’ll punch through a wall. What I wouldn’t give for just… **_one… fried… churro!_**

*********

After we finish taping Episode 8, a production assistant pokes her head into the Girls’ Dressing Room. “No-one leave yet, okay, ladies?” she asks, looking worried. “Bernie wants to talk to you guys.”

This evokes surprise from my castmates. Bernie is Bernard Chambers, our overweight and harried producer. The more senior girls tell me that back in the Seventies, when he was young and inspired, Bernie produced a few low-budget movies which were actually nominated for Academy Awards. But mainstream success has eluded poor Bernie, and his career since the Eighties has been one steady decline. He’s lucky to be producing AFW.

“Wonder if we’re getting canceled,” Danica mutters next to me.

Oh God. I hope not.

*********

The cast of AFW assembles on our set, which is the wrestling ring and the audience bleachers. Its weird to see the guy wrestlers in their street clothes and out of makeup. We ladies rehearse and train separately, so I only ever see the males in dress rehearsal or during filming. Some of them actually look like respectable human beings.

Bernie, grayer than usual, climbs a stepladder. Poor Bernie. He’s shorter than I am, and really, really fat. He’s bald, with bad teeth, bad knees, bad skin, bad hearing, and bad taste in clothes. He wheezes a lot when he moves, and his brow is always dotted with sweat. Its like any gasp could be his last. I’ve never met a bigger lump of human wreckage than this man.

“Thanks for staying, everybody,” Bernie rasps, casting his sad eyes over all of us. “I gots some bad news.”

“Aw, fuck…” Danica groans next to me.

“We’re canceled?” Jake Terrington (a.k.a. Rabid Dog) asks, speaking for everyone assembled.

“What, canceled?” chokes Bernie, as if spooked by the idea. “No, not canceled. Not this early in the season. No, no.”

He breaks into a fit of coughing. We all wait impatiently.

“No, today, we lost Tide Soap as our primary sponsor,” Bernie finally says, placing a trembling hand on his chest. “Tide Soap. They’re out. I guess… they didn’t like the family theme of the show, or something.”

I look about my castmates. “Tide Soap was a sponsor?” I stage-whisper to Ivy, who happens to be to my left.

Ivy shrugs.

Okay, losing a sponsor **_sounds_** bad… but we’re **_not_** canceled? I can see the puzzlement on my fellow wrestlers’ faces. So what exactly is the problem, here?

“Don’t you guys know how this industry works?” Bernie asks us, annoyed. “Who do you think pays for all this?” He waves a limp hand about the soundstage. “Without Tide, we can’t pay the studio facility fees.”

“So… we have to find another sponsor, then?” Jimmy Chen (aka Thrasher Khan) asks.

Bernie nods. “’xactly. In fact, we’re sorta lucky. The network UpFronts are later this week.”

I blink. “What’re UpFronts?” I ask Ivy.

“Advertiser expos,” she explains. “It’s a big trade show. All the networks put on displays of their programs, and potential advertisers sign up for what they want to back. It’s a dog-and-pony show.”

The other wrestlers are murmuring. No-one sounds very optimistic. “Oh sure,” the ever-sarcastic Chrissy drawls, “we’ll find a brand-new sponsor in the eleventh hour willing to save this crappy show. Riiiight.”

“Listen,” implores Bernie, waving his hands for quiet. “We ain’t got much time to put something together that might impress the money people, hear me? **_But we gotta do this._** ‘cause the network ain’t gonna bail us out.”

“Do we get paid for doing the UpFront?” Corey Lindowski (aka Victor the Voice) yells out.

Bernie cringes. “Ehhhh… no…” he wheedles.

The wrestlers’ muttering grows angrier.

“Aw, c’mon, you guys,” our producer pleads. He’s actually wringing his hands. “I need a few performers to come with me and show ‘em what AFW is all about. Who’s with me? Who’s with me???”

If I ever have to fight in live combat, I sure hope Bernie isn’t there to give the inspirational pep talk. Because the man reeks of desperation and doom and failure.

Of course, if the show collapses… I’m out of a job, with every white casting agent seeing me as Hot Tamale. I’m screwed. I’m **_so_** screwed.

Taking a deep breath, I raise my hand. “I’m with you, Bernie!” I cry out.

Everyone falls silent to stare in my direction.

“Who’re you?” Bernie asks, peering at me.

Wow, I feel so valued right now.

*********

In the end, four of our male wrestlers can be coaxed into giving their precious time to attend the UpFront. Begging like a pauper, Bernie is able to coax Joachim Gonzales (aka the Desert Wind), who is our biggest star at the moment, into joining us. I cajole Danica (who is also starting this season, like me), into volunteering.

And to my surprise, Ivy also jumps in at the last minute.

“You inspire me, kid,” she tells me, winking. I always knew I liked her.

“Wonderful,” Bernie smiles, looking about ready to collapse. “I’ll speak with the production team, and we’ll work something out for you guys.”

The meeting breaks up with a lot of long faces. My castmates are certain that in a week, we’ll all be collecting Unemployment. I’m determined that won’t happen.

*********

The UpFront takes place during business hours, meaning we volunteers have to be at the studio by 7 AM to change into our costumes. _Uf!_ 7 AM for a wrestler is really fucking early.

I’m in a rotten mood and in **_serious_** need of coffee when I arrive at studio wardrobe. I ignore the guy wrestlers and find Ivy, Chrissy, and Danica changing in the Girls’ Dressing Room.

“Morning, sunshine,” Ivy smiles.

I grunt back, sounding and feeling like Frankenstein’s monster.

Mabel, our costume mistress, is there. She hands me an outfit on a hanger.

“Whoa, what’s this?” I balk.

“Your new costume,” explains Mabel.

I recognize Hot Tamale’s usual plain shirt… but what’s this denim thing that looks like a large, misshapen brassiere?

“Those are your shorts,” Mabel informs me.

“**_Shorts?_**” I gag. My temper, already frayed, ignites. “**_¡No mames! _**These are… two foam cups and a zipper. You’ve got to be-”

“No, those are your shorts,” the costume mistress repeats, offended. “The cups are for your ass cheeks and the zipper goes in front.”

Oh.

Oh Jesus.

I thought my old shorts were tiny.

Working gingerly, I slip into the new pants. **_Holy fuck!_** So my rear and crotch are covered, but that’s about it. My legs are bare almost up to my waist, for there are no pockets in this thing. And the foam cups hold my buttocks out, and you can clearly see their outlines when you look at me from behind. Its like I’m actually nude and someone quickly spray-painted a little blue over my private areas.

“I have to go out in public like **_this?_**” I gasp, dismayed.

Ivy scans me with a quizzical eye. “It could be worse,” she tells me. “Besides, you look hot. Its clear you’ve been working out like a fiend.”

She playfully slaps me in the butt. “See?” she says. “You look hot. Embrace it.”

*********

Once everyone is in costume and has had their coffee (**_FINALLY!_**), we pile into a studio van. The male wrestlers are really burly guys, so this is a tight squeeze. Then our driver fights LA rush hour traffic to get us downtown.

The UpFront is being held at the Ritz-Carlton, which looks like a tower of silver and crystal. There are thousands of people thronged to get inside, and all in expensive-looking business suits. We wrestlers queue up, feeling ridiculous in our skimpy costumes.

Once we’re in the main Ballroom, someone finds Bernie. “Hey, youse guys!” he rasps. “Com’on, our spot is over here!”

I look about in wonder. The enormous ballroom is packed with flashy booths for the latest shows. Right away, I spot Breaking Bad, Parks and Recreation, Supernatural, Big Bang Theory, Friday Night Lights. _Guau!_

**_OH MY GOD!!!_** There’s… what’s his face… one of the stars of Big Bang Theory! You know, the nerdy one. Oh, fuck me! Actual TV stars attend this thing!

As I watch, important-looking people in those crisp business suits approach booths, shaking hands with producers, admiring the promotional materials, taking selfies with the talent. A lot of business cards are changing hands. The talk in the air is warm and fun-filled… but civil.

Now I get why Bernie wanted us to come here. The people attending this thing are rich, and they’re looking to spend on entertainment properties. All we need is one impressed millionaire, and we’re back in business.

*********

Team AFW feels a lot less confident when Bernie shows us our booth.

First of all, we are on the very edge of the expo, right next to the emergency exits. So no-one’s gonna see us unless the building catches on fire. Great. Worse, our promotional materials are nonexistent. Unlike the other shows, we have no lifesize glossies of our stars, no information packets to hand out, no charts bragging about our ratings or audience share.

What do we have? We have exactly one item: We have the three-foot cardboard cutout of AFW’s logo that we hang in the background of our in-show interview booth. That thing is fairly dented and creased after three seasons of use, and it doesn’t look like much in the harsh electric lights of the ballroom. **_¡Que chafa!_**

To add insult to injury, the stupid logo isn’t even mounted above our booth! Its just propped up against the wall.

“**_This_** is what we have to work with?” Ivy wails, beyond dismayed. “Bernie… We’re gonna look like amateurs!”

“I… I… I didn’t have time to put anything together,” our producer lamely explains.

My fellow wrestlers and I groan aloud.

*********

My _vieja_ always liked to say, “_Make lemonade from lemons_,” which is good advice, right? So my castmates and I try to do what we can.

Ivy and I quickly stage a mock fight, and we pretend to wrestle one another while Jimmy Chen fills in as our MC. This is hard, because Ivy and I don’t have ropes to work with, plus we can’t slam one another to the hard floor as if we were in the ring. But we do what we can. When Ivy “pins” me, we step aside and let two of our male colleagues mock-fight. And so on.

But the business crowd is not impressed. I see a lot of people wrinkle their noses at us. Several women, in particular, take one look at my costume and shake their heads in disgust.

“Jesus,” Danica mutters when a pack of European investors turn away, “I don’t even know if these people realize we’re looking for sponsors!”

“They know,” I insist. …but I’m not sure.

“We’re **_so fucking screwed_**,” grumbles Chrissy. For once, I share her pessimism.

*********

Its been five hours, and we have yet to have a single business person approach our motley gang. I’ve faked-wrestled Ivy seven times now. Our meager show is not working.

Even Bernie seems resigned to a humiliating defeat. The fat little man is sitting in a folding chair, off to the side, holding his head in his hands. What a way to end a showbiz career.

“Hey, where’s Joachim?” Ivy asks suddenly. Her voice is suspicious.

We all look about. Sure enough, Joachim Gonzales, our biggest star, has skipped out. He’s gone! Left us!

Great, just great.

I groan inwardly. Looks like this is…

**_Wait._** My breath draws short. There, out in the swirling expo, I suddenly spot a familiar face!

Could it be…?

It is! **_Tex Malone!_**

Omigod, **_TEX MALONE_** is here at the UpFront! Its been years since I’ve seen him! Jesus, he looks… the same as ever!

*********

Okay, a little history: I was born in Guadalajara, Mexico, which has a lot of factories. A **_lot_** of factories, you get me? When I was six, I noticed that most of the factories in my neighborhood had a strange word on them: MALONE. I asked Papa what that word meant.

“You don’t know?” he said, surprised. “Malone is the factory owner. Tex Malone, son of Winston Malone. He employs most of your friends’ papas.”

Shortly after that, I realized that Mr. Tex Malone was a huge part of my neighborhood. He was the gringo who liked to sponsor our _Dia de los Muertos_ festivals, as long as we let him lead the parade. When Hurricane Pauline trashed our southern neighbors, I heard that Mr. Malone lent his warehouses and workers to go and help out. Children learned to recognize his Mercedes-Benz, for he liked to toss silver coins out the window before he drove off.

I personally knew Mr. Malone because at age fourteen, I was in _Campamento de J__óvnes Actores_, or Young Actors’ Camp. It was the reason I decided wanted to be an actress. That year, Mr. Malone’s prized daughter, Crystal, also joined up. Me and her got to be friends, and we tried out for Wizard of Oz together. I got Cowardly Lion. Crystal couldn’t sing or act to save her life, but somehow she was cast as Dorothy. Maybe because Daddy was a club sponsor that year, what do you think?

I still remember Mr. Malone, sitting in the front row, leaping to his feet and cheering when we took our bows. He was so proud of all of us.

*********

Well, that was almost ten years ago, and… _¡No manches!_ …there’s Mr. Malone, right here, in the flesh. I can’t believe it!

God**_damn!_** He looks the same as ever. Well, his moustache is whiter than when last I saw him. But he’s still tall and thin, almost to the point of being gaunt. His face is more tanned and worn than I remember, but his brown eyes still have that knife-sharp glint. He’s wearing his trademark brown suit coat, string tie, blue jeans, tan cowboy hat, and… _¡Oh, Órale!_ …black crocodile cowboy boots. I completely forgot how he loved those boots.

Mr. Malone is causally strolling about the UpFront, with about five pencilnecked assistants in tow. These guys are all in stuffy suits, carrying clipboards and papers, and looking anxious. Occasionally, Mr. Malone makes a remark or asks a question; they scurry to write down notes. Accountants.

Mr. Malone must be… what? In his early fifties? Man, he looks good for such an older _güey_.

Wheels in my head start turning. Mr. Malone is at the UpFront? That means he’s looking to sponsor a television show. What other purpose could have brought him here?

This is a sign. It **_has_** to be.

Ignoring the gapes of my castmates, I skip into the crowd of executives, bustling straight up to Mr. Malone himself. The fellow’s eyes pop as I approach.

As I sidle up to Mr. Malone, the dude recoils back, but just a little. At the same time, the small phalanx of assistants cluck and glare at me. But I ignore them.

“Mr. Malone,” I purr, taking his arm, “I do hope you remember me. Francisca Matrìnez? From Guadalajara?”

The billionaire is completely taken aback.

“My folks are Juan and Verónica Matrìnez?” I press on. “And you and I met a few times. You know, when Crystal was in the acting club?”

Mr. Malone’s face lights up. “Of course!” he exclaims. “You and Crystal were in Wizard of Oz!”

“So we were,” I smile.

“Oh, of **_course!_**” Mr. Malone grins, his eyes dancing. “You were Cowardly Lion! My Gawd! **_Of course_** I remember you!”

The assistants, now sensing that I am not a psycho stranger, back off. But they keep their suspicious glares locked on me.

Mr. Malone ignores them. “Dangnabbit me, what a small world,” he marvels. “Little Francisca Matrìnez! What are you doin’ in LA?”

Ah, I was **_hoping _**he’d ask. I put my plan into action.

“Oh, I’m in TV,” I say causally, tossing my ponytails. “I’m an actress. Sort of.”

“I knew it!” Mr. Malone declares. “What have I seen you in, darlin’?”

This is almost too easy. “I’m on American Freedom Wresting,” I say cheerfully. “In fact-“

“You’re **_Hot Tamale!_**” the rich man gapes, looking starstruck. “My **_Gawd_**, how did I not see that?”

“Oh, you’re a fan?” I say coyly.

“**_Huge_** fan!” Mr. Malone bellows.

I must be cashing in boatloads of karma. Like, I will never, ever, ever get this lucky again in my whole lifetime. Gotta make the most of it.

“Well then,” I grin, “how’d you like to meet our cast?”

*********

Taking Mr. Malone by the arm, I guide him to the AFW booth. Its hard to say who looks the most astonished: my castmates, the billionaire, or his pencilnecked assistants. Everyone gapes at everyone else.

Actually, I take that back: I can tell you who looks the shell-shocked. That would be Bernie, who may be having a brain aneurism in the presence of such a wealthy man. His grey face is slacker and paler than usual.

“My **_Gawd!_**” Mr. Malone exclaims, actually hooking his thumbs in his belt. “Lordy, I didn’t expect to see the stars of AFW here at the UpFront!”

He turns to Ivy, politely tipping his hat. “Warrioress,” he says grandly. “I’m such a huge fan. Y’have no idea.”

Our redheaded star smiles back, completely charmed. “Well… thank you,” she demurs.

One-by-one, I introduce Mr. Malone to the rest of the cast. He knows everyone’s characters by name. Its obvious that he seen most of our episodes.

“Well, dangnabbit,” the billionaire says, shaking his head. “This has been quite a day.” He looks over our incredibly lame booth. “So, uh…” he says, “are you folks here at the UpFront for fun…?”

Apparently our display is so unprofessional, Mr. Malone never once guessed we were fishing for money people. Way to go, Bernie.

“No, we’re here for sponsors,” I say quickly, moving to Mr. Malone’s side once more.

“You folks are in need?” he says, his white eyebrows lifting off his forehead. “I’d of thought a supercool show like yours would be raking in the cash.”

“I know, right?” I josh, laughing a little. (Did you hear that? He called us _supercool_. Ha!) “Well, it just happens that our last sponsor had some problems of their own, and…”

A little white lie won’t hurt, right? I hope not.

“Oh, I get it,” Mr. Malone assures me. “Your funding dried up? That happens all the time with those big Wall Street boys. Y’have no idea.”

My hometown billionaire cocks his head, sizing me up. “So, how much d’you folks need?”

I thought he’d never ask.

*********


	3. A Massage and then a Red Dress

Life at AFW gets much more relaxed after Mr. Malone signs on as our sponsor. We give him an insider’s tour of our soundstage and rehearsal spaces. “My **_Gawd_**,” he declares after fifteen minutes. “No wonder you folks shoot in near-darkness. **_Look_** at this dump!”

He gestures to the northern face of our wrestling ring, where the siding has been coming off. We can’t shoot from that direction any more.

“Aw, no,” Mr. Malone says, shaking his head. “No, no. This won’t do. We’ll have t’get this place fixed up, and pronto.” He glances upward. “And why don’t y’have crystal chandeliers over the ring? Wrestling should have some class. Like you’re filming in an exclusive Las Vegas showroom, not an old gym!”

“We… can’t afford chandeliers,” Bernie admits, looking ready to faint.

“You can now,” Mr. Malone declares, nodding at a note-taking assistant. “We’re gonna get my construction and decoration people in here, pronto. Make this place look first-rate.”

“After all,” the billionaire says, beaming at Ivy, me, and the admiring female cast, “the ladies of AFW deserve nothing less!”

*********

Mr. Malone is as good as his word. We’re forced out of our soundstage for a few days while a new army of laborers toil away on our dilapidated set.

When they’re finished, I barely recognize anything. The wrestling ring is completely refurbished, with more comfortable padding, a better color, and ropes that actually have some snap in them! The studio audience now sits in stadium seats, not folding chairs on makeshift bleachers, and there are Roman columns around the perimeter. Nice!

Mr. Malone’s people even fixed and upgraded the fire alarm system. Apparently it hadn’t worked in years. Considering all the flammable paint and costumes around here, it’s a miracle our show hasn’t literally gone up in flames.

And yes, there are now four twinkling chandeliers hovering over the ring, which can be raised and lowered at the push of a button. I’m blown away.

The only downside is the construction people left ton of their building supplies – lumber, tools, cement, I don’t know what else – in a big pile on one side of the soundstage. Bernie arranges to pull a black curtain over this eyesore, at least for now.

*********

Meanwhile, my stock has gone up among the cast and crew. Suddenly, the other ladies let me have the nicest locker and first pick of the showers after our group cardio classes. Bernie’s assistant checks in with me twice a day, to see “if you need anything.” I never do, but the attention is flattering.

Perhaps more importantly, I’m suddenly getting better storylines and higher profile fights on the show. Hot Tamale is suddenly paired up with Warrioress, forming the (ahem) “Justice Girl Squad Against Evil.” No, I’m not kidding you. We’re battling our way through all the villain wrestlers, working our way up to Dr. Sleaze, who is this season’s evil mastermind. The whole thing is completely hokey… but I’m loving the extra screen time.

Honestly, when I spotted Mr. Malone at the UpFront, I just did what I had to do to save the show. Any other girl would have done the same. You’d have done the same too, had our roles been reversed. _Cr__éame!_

*********

After we tape our eleventh show, I’m heading out to my car with my other castmates. Its late, and my body is aching from an especially long crunch session this morning, and then seven hours of shooting. I want to go home and dissolve in a hot bath.

“Hey Francisca…?” Will, Bernie’s assistant, is chasing after me before I leave the building. “Listen, Bernie would like to see you.”

“_¿Ahora?_” I gag. The soundstage is dark. Our show offices are closed. We’re done for the day. Bernie wants to give me notes on my performance **_now?_**

I glance at the other girls, who stare back. Ivy shrugs. “Just see what he wants,” she advises. “Bernie’s been strangely jumpy today.”

*********

I find Bernie in his dank, run-down office. He’s chain smoking, and has a stressed look in his eyes. What’s he so stressed about? The show ratings actually ticked up this week.

“_¿Qué tal,_ Bernie?,” I say, in way of greeting.

“Hey doll,” says Bernie. He attempts a smile, but his worn face just can’t pull it off. “Listen,” he wheezes, “I got a call from Tex Malone’s people.”

“That’s nice,” I reply wearily. “Do they-“

“Tex said he’s having a dinner party tonight,” my producer says anxiously. “He was hoping you could attend. I guess he wants to show you off, now that he’s sponsoring AFW, and all.”

Bernie searches my face anxiously. His lower lip trembles slightly.

I stiffen. Hollywood is loaded with horror stories of pretty young actresses who are lured to the mansion of an older, wealthy producer. The older man flaunts his power and/or threatens the actress’s livelihood. And trapped by the situation, the young actress submits and lets the producer spread her legs. It’s a story as old as time.

So, Mr. Malone wants me to trope up to his house, and then what? Slip into his bedroom? Suck his cock? Let him drill me in the ass?

I scowl.

Bernie senses my fear. Quickly, he puts up both hands. “I tried to talk them out of it!” he cries. “Listen, if you feel uncomfortable…“

Good ‘ol Bernie. He may be a nervous heap of putty, but the guy has heart.

“No, its okay, Bernie,” I say, resigned. “I’ve known Mr. Malone for years. I don’t think he’ll do anything. And we have to keep him happy, right?”

Bernie weakly smiles again. His cigarette hand trembles.

“Relax,” I tell him. “I’m a big girl. If anything happens, I’ll snap him like a _ramita_.” I grin wickedly. “I bench-pressed one-fifty today, you know.”

*********

Still tired and a little grouchy, I call one of Mr. Malone’s assistants. I get the street address of his LA mansion (out in Manhattan Beach! Nice!) and ask a few quick questions. “I’m just in my workout outfit,” I say, annoyed. “Shouldn’t we postpone until I can get in proper clothes and makeup?”

“_No, just come as you are,_” the assistant insists. Man, this guy has a nasal voice. “_Mr. Malone just has a few Hollywood friends over. Its very casual. He thought you might want to meet a few producers, you know, for future jobs._”

I pause. Producers? You mean, I might get an audition out of tonight? Well, that’s a horse of a different color.

I thank the assistant, get in my car, then hop on the 110 South.

*********

On the drive down, I find myself thinking about Mr. Malone. You know, I’ve caught him scoping out my figure more than once… especially when I’m in costume… but he’s never once been any less than a perfect gentleman. He’s always polite and respectful. He never cracks sexist jokes. (Most men do when they learn I’m a wrestler.) He’s a bit old-fashioned in his manners, but never condescending or overly chivalrous.

That’s rare.

*********

Mr. Malone’s address is a white Spanish mansion, just a block from the beach. Damn! Inside the iron gate, the driveway is long, lined with carefully-tended hedges and palm trees. The entryway is an enormous terrace, flanked by two crystal fountains and elaborate tilework. _Más padre!_

A young servant in a black vest, trousers, and button-down shirt materializes to valet my car after I pull up. “Go on inside,” he tells me with a polite smile.

Immediately, a butler greets me. (_Órale_, I’ve never seen a real life butler before.) “Miss Francisca Matrìnez?” he asks coolly. “Right this way.”

I want to stop and gape at the yawning foyer, the domed ceilings, the elaborate Mexican art hanging on the walls. But the butler spins on his heels and plunges into the great house, and I have to scurry to keep up.

We pass through a wide hallway, and I get glimpses into several of the spectacularly decorated rooms of this house. I particularly like the library with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and grand piano.

But ahead, I hear men’s voices and the clink of glasses. The butler slides open two panel doors, and now I see a parlor, complete with a wide fireplace, nineteenth century-style couches in deep red, a huge globe, and a marble table. A poker table is set up against the bay windows, which looks out onto the crystal blue pool. On the walls, there are old photos of safari hunters posing with the big game they’ve shot. There’s also a glass case mounted on the far wall, displaying hundreds of pinned butterflies.

The room is populated with, I dunno, about ten men, all white, all middle aged. They look up at me, and some react as if they recognize me. The air is heavy with cigar smoke, as most of these gents have a lit stogie between their fingers.

“Ah, Francisca,” a familiar baritone says.

Mr. Malone unfolds himself from the other dudes and approaches. He’s wearing an earth tone button-down shirt and blue jeans. Plus those crocodile boots. Without his cowboy hat, I almost didn’t recognize him. _¡No mames!_ He’s gone bald!

“Thanks for coming,” the billionaire grins, politely shaking my hand. “Listen, I know you just had a long day, ‘n all… But a few of my buddies are casting the next Will Smith movie. I reckoned you’d want to meet them.” He eyes me with concern. “Was that wrong?”

Although I’m tired, I’m surprised to find… I’m a little touched by Mr. Malone here. He’s thinking about the next step in my career? Wow, that’s huge!

“No, not wrong,” I say quickly. “In fact, thank you.”

Of course… I’m dressed in my sweatpants and an old tee shirt. I’ve got no makeup and Lord knows that my tossed-together ponytail is probably a horrendous bramble. I look like the Hispanic Homeless. How’m I gonna impress a producer looking like this?

Mr. Malone sees me fretting at my appearance, and immediately gets it. “Aw geez,” he frowns. “I apologize Francisca, I shoulda given you more warning. This little shindig just happened, y’know?”

He snaps his fingers. “No sweat,” he declares. “Crystal has a bedroom upstairs. You’re still her size. Why don’t you pop in there, freshen up, take something from her closet? She still has a makeup kit there, I think.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “_¡No manches!_ You mean it?”

“Absolutely,” Mr. Malone promises. He snaps his fingers again. “You know what else? You’re probably stiff ‘n sore from all that wrestling, right? I’ll send up Carlos. He’s my own personal trainer, but he’s also a world-class masseuse. World-class. Got one of them advanced certifications from… ah, I forget. Anyway, the man’s a genius with his fingers.”

A dip into Crystal Malone’s closet **_and_** a deluxe massage? Twist my arm.

“You go get ready, then come back downstairs,” Mr. Malone tells me. He sheepishly indicates his guy friends. “These bums, they’ll be here for hours. You got plenty of time.”

*********

Yet another servant guides me to Crystal’s “bedroom,” which, of course, is a five-room suite. _¡Que chido!_ Man, I wish I was rich.

I decide to try out the shower, which is heavenly! (**_Note to self:_** Get the manufacturer of that shower head, and then buy a lifetime supply.) Feeling refreshed, I wrap one towel about my body and a second around my hair. Now… let’s inspect Crystal’s closet, shall we?

There’s a soft rap at the front door. “_Señorita_ Matrìnez?” a timid voice calls out.

I crack open the door. There, on the other side, is a young Hispanic man, perhaps my age. He’s wearing a plain white polo shirt, white slacks, and open-toed sandals. Nice build. He looks terrified of me.

Right away, I realize: this dude’s Mexican! Ah, another member of the tribe. I relax a little.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, switching to Spanish.

“I am Carlos, ma’am,” the guy says. His voice has an undeniable lisp. “Mr. Malone, he sent me up here? For the massage?”

“Oh, right,” I say, eagerly. “Com’on in.”

To my surprise, Carlos lugs in a full-sized massage table, folded in half, and then a suitcase. He begins to set up.

“You want… just shoulders, or full body?” he asks me nervously.

_Caracoles_… did he just say **_full body?_**

I watch Carlos carefully. Every movement this man makes and every word he says convinces me: he’s gay. Very, very gay. _Sí, es la neta._ I could drop both my towels and prance about the room without a stitch on, and it wouldn’t stir Carlos in the slightest.

“Full body, please,” I say, pleased.

_¿Que chinados?_ I want to indulge myself.

*********

In just three minutes, I’m nude, lying belly-down on the table. Carlos tastefully drapes a towel over my butt, but I don’t care. I know he won’t glance at me with anything more than a passing interest.

Carlos splashes my shoulders with some oil, and then…

…Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh man…!!!

** _Wow._ **

** _Mierda!_ **

He’s **_good_**.

The dude’s fingers dig into my back and shoulderblades, and his touch reduces me to warm butter. I can feel my muscles sighing in happiness. Ohhh yeah…

I grunt in appreciation as Carlos’ magic hands traverse down both sides of my spine.

“You exercise a lot, yes?” the masseuse observes. I’ve barely noticed, but we’ve switched back to English.

“…yeah…” I say. I’m starting to feel drugged.

“There is a lot of muscle tension here,” Carlos tells me. “May I make a suggestion? To make sure you get the most of my work?”

“Please,” I mumble.

“I will tell you relaxation exercises,” says Carlos, still kneading away. “It will help mentally distract you, and allow the muscles open up even more. That is what you want, no?”

That sounds fine. “Sure.”

“Now, you listen to me, okay?” Carlos instructs me. “You listen to me, and I will instruct your thinking to relax your muscles, one-by-one. We start with these muscles here.” He moves his hands to the back of my shoulders. “Right here. **_Relax_** those muscles, okay? Focus and relax these muscles. Do it in your mind.”

As he’s speaking, I can actually feel my shoulder muscles ease up and release stress. Its not so much like I’m directing these muscles to let go, its more like Carlos is drawing my attention to them, and I observe that they are letting go all on their own. Its kinda cool.

“Very good,” murmurs Carlos. “Now, turn your attention to the long muscles in your back. Focus on them and…”

His voice ripples on. I sigh, feeling myself descend into a blissful relaxation coma. I feel like my body has turned into a cloud, a white, formless puffy cloud. I never want to get off this massage table.

*********

Am I dreaming? I seem to be floating… expanding in all directions… warm and comfortable… so happy and unconcerned about anything… This is sooooo nice…

From a million miles away, I can clearly hear Carlos’ voice, pattering on. “_And now,_” he tells me, “_you will listen to all my suggestions and instructions. You will want to follow and obey all my commands. You will allow my every suggestion to go deep into your mind, where you must carry them out later. You cannot resist, and you do not want to resist. Everything I tell you to do while you are in this state, you will do without question or hesitation…_”

I listen, completely unconcerned with any of this. Carlos is going to give me instructions? That seems fine. I will obey him? Sure, of course I will. _¡Claro que s__í!_ Why wouldn’t I? Oh, my body feels **_so good_** right now…

“_Now you will listen to my commands,_” the masseuse instructs me. “_You will listen, and then you will forget. But later, you will obey every instruction I have placed in your head, as if they were your own idea. Listen carefully…_”

*********

Suddenly, I feel Carlos’ magic hands disappearing from my body. I am aware of the room, my body lying on the table, the cool air, the faint sound of the ocean outside the windows.

I blink. My body feels heavy and sedated… but is coming back to life. I can wriggle my fingers and toes.

“There we are!” I hear Carlos exclaim. “How do you feel?”

How **_do_** I feel? I yawn, considering the question.

“Wow,” I mumble, collecting my wits. “That was… incredible. I feel so relaxed. _¡Muy relajado!_ You have no idea.”

Carlos laughs gently. “Good, good.”

I slowly sit up, rolling my head about my neck. I’m still naked. Carlos doesn’t so much as blink. He’s such a sweetie.

“You know,” I remark, “I think I might have dozed off while you were working on me.”

I grin and hop off the massage table. As Carlos goes to work packing up his stuff, I wander into Crystal’s walk-in closet. What should I borrow?

*********

So Mr. Malone was dead wrong about one thing. Crystal and I are **_not_** the same size. Not even close. Judging from the tentlike dresses I see on the racks, Crystal has put on about a hundred pounds and must have an ass the size of two watermelons. Poor girl.

But… wait a second… Oddly, there’s a small rack off to the side, containing slim, form-fitting party dresses. Interesting. Drawn to these, I began to inspect each one.

There’s no way Crystal could squeeze into these. But they are all just my size! Huh.

I find a sparkly little red number, a one-piece with an open back, bare shoulders, long sleeves, and a tight little miniskirt. Oh yeah, I’ll look sexy in this. Nice!

Wasting little time, I shimmy into the dress, pleased that it fits me so well. **_So well!_** It hugs my tummy and hips just right. My butt feels comfortably swaddled, but not packed in. For once, I’m grateful for all that steamed fish and brown rice.

Whaddya know, there’s even a pair of matching shoes. Red high heels.

As I inspect myself in the body mirror, I notice that my panty lines are clearly visible. Damn. I really liked this dress.

But…

A weird feeling strikes me. I pull up the skirt, then slip my undies off completely. When I replace the skirt… There! Much better. Much, much better! In fact, I look awesome!

A part of me is horrified. I’m actually thinking I’ll go and hang out with Mr. Malone’s wealthy friends with **_nothing_** covering my hoohah? _Dios M__ío_, what if I sit down and forget to cross my legs? This skirt can’t be longer than three inches. Even now, I can feel the cool air on my crotch and vagina. **_This is obscene!_**

And yet…

There’s something weird in my mind, something telling me that going commando is okay. No, that’s not it. I…

I simply must leave my panties behind. I have to.

Without another thought, I discard my underwear, and instantly, my thoughts change direction.

I find myself posing before the mirror again, admiring how the shimmering red cloth wraps about my crazy-buff figure.

Behind me, there is a tiny gasp. **_Someone’s there!_**

I jump, my heart racing. Who is watching?

To my shock, there is a tiny little girl, no taller than my hip. She’s petite, very beautiful, with cream-colored skin and huge, gorgeous brown eyes. She wears a plain white nightgown and sockies, with her long hair loose about her shoulders. The child gapes up at me in wonder.

“Are you a princess lady?” she asks me, in Spanish.

As my fluttering heart recovers, I realize: this child is Mexican! In fact, judging from her accent, she might have been born not far from where I grew up.

In that moment, I’m struck by how pretty and innocent this girl looks. I’ve never wanted to be a mamma… but for once in my life, my motherly instincts are kicking in. I like this kid. I want her to smile at me.

Laughing a little, I bend forward to be on the kid’s eye level. “Who are you, darling?” I ask quietly.

“My name is Alejandra,” the girl says cheerfully. “You’re pretty.”

I’m charmed. “Thank you, sweetheart,” I blush.

“Are you a princess lady?” Alejandra asks again.

Before I can reply, Carlos pokes his head into the closet. “Alejandra!” he exclaims crossly.

The little girl flinches.

“You’re **_supposed_** to be downstairs, sleeping,” the masseuse says, exasperated. “Not wandering about Mr. Malone’s house!”

“I had a bad dream,” Alejandra whimpers.

Carlos rolls his eyes, but I can see that he’s not really angry. “I’m so sorry _Señorita_,” he apologies to me, taking Alejandra by the hand. “She is my departed sister’s only child. I try to look after her, but…” He throws a mock glare at the girl. “…she is stubborn. Like her mother.”

“Oh, I can relate,” I tell him, amused.

Carlos grimaces. He’s still quite a few things to pack up.

I see an opportunity. “Alejandra,” I ask coyly, “I still have to fix my hair and makeup. Would you like to help?”

The little girl’s eyes widen in delight.

*********

“Oh **_Gawd!_**” Mr. Malone gasps when I make my grand appearance into the parlor. “You look… beautiful!”

All the male guests freeze, staring at me in astonishment. I blush a little. Its nice to be appreciated for being beautiful.

It took about twenty minutes to throw my hair into an acceptable ponytail, plus apply lipstick and eyeshadow. Little Alejandra tried her best to help, but I had to do most of the work myself. No matter. She and I, we had fun. _¡__Tan divertido!_

And look at how the gentlemen are reacting! You’d think I was a Mexican Cinderella at the ball!

“Well now,” beams Mr. Malone, and he moves to take my arm. Never once does he look at me below my eyes. He’s such a gentleman.

“Hank!” my billionaire host cries out. “Y’remember that young woman I told you about? The wrestler, who’s also an actress? Well, get yerself over here. You still looking to cast for that movie about the Amazon warriors?”

*********

I spend an hour or so hobnobbing with Mr. Malone’s rich friends. Their manners are not stellar and they make a lot of crude comments. I can feel their eyes undressing me, and they stand a little too close for comfort.

But these old _güeys_ flatter me without any shame whatsoever. I grow to love their attention and laugh at their corny jokes. Even the ones about me or my body.

“So, you’re a wrestler?” a nearsighted fellow named Addison Bloom asks me.

(Really! The dude’s name is actually Addison Bloom! **_¡Jalada!_**)

“Of course she is, Addison!” Mr. Malone booms. A servant appears a dozen glasses of brandy on a tray; our host starts handing them out. “She’s on American Freedom Wrestling, and she’s gonna win the title this year, you mark my words.”

“Well, then,” Addison says admiringly. “I guess I’ll have to start watching. Not sure my wife will approve, but… eh.”

“Are all the other wrestlers as pretty as you?” another gent named Gus asks me.

“Well, I don’t think the Macho Destroyer could pull off this dress,” I wisecrack.

My joke really isn’t that funny… but the men all laugh boisterously anyway.

“Listen, Francisca, you’re an actress?” a third dude named… Don? Jon? Juan? asks me. “You interested in reading for a part in my next project? You’d be perfect.”

I flash my eyes in an excited way, and make sure to grab Don/Jon/Juan’s business card.

*********

The evening rolls on like this. The men’s jokes get lamer and cruder, but I don’t care. I’ve collected the names of four different producers. Including Addison Bloom. My agent’s gonna flip! Man, I’m glad I came tonight.

But at one point, Gus points out, “My lord! Its one in the morning?!?”

It is??? How is that possible? I feel so energized, like I could swim the English Channel.

“Oh, my word,” Chester mumbles. “I shoulda been home already.” Fumbling for his cell phone, he makes some crass remark about his wife.

All around me, the party’s breaking up. To my surprise, I’m a little disappointed everyone’s taking off. I’m not ready to go home yet!

*********

Suddenly, its just me and Mr. Malone in the parlor. Man, those other dudes emptied out fast.

“I guess I should be getting home, too,” I say, setting down my brandy glass. “I have a workout session tomorrow at eight. No rest for the wicked, or the pro wrestler.”

But Mr. Malone has moved to the double panel doors. He’s sliding them shut, then clicking the lock.

“You can stay a little longer,” he rumbles, turning slowly to face me.

There’s something about how he says this that catches my breath. I know I should leave… but for the moment, I just can’t. I can’t take a single step.

No, that’s not it. I don’t want to move. My body wants to remain where it is. I never want to leave this room.

With a knowing grin, Mr. Malone strolls to the butterfly case. “C’mere,” he commands me softly.

Suddenly, my feet are moving. Like I have no will of my own, I cross the carpet, coming to rest just before him.

“See that one?” He pivots me so that I’m facing the butterfly case, then points to a gorgeous blue specimen under the glass.

I feel his firm hand rest on my shoulder as he steps close, right behind me. My eyes are rooted on the still butterfly. Its huge, and its wings are the softest, most brilliant shade of blue I’ve ever seen. Like the water in a clear pool.

Mr. Malone rests both of his palms on my shoulderblades. “That’s a _Morpho_, a female,” he tells me softly. “Very rare. South American. They tell me that if you’re lucky to see a flock of them in the wild, they look as if they are vanishing and appearing before your eyes. Because they blend in perfectly with the sky. Perfectly. It makes them hard to catch. But worth it, wouldn’t you say?”

“Its gorgeous,” I reply truthfully. “Do you wish you’d seen this one alive?”

“What matters,” says Mr. Malone softly, “is that this lovely creature has been captured, for me to enjoy whenever I wish.” He moves to stand directly behind me. His hand reaches up to push all of my hair over my left shoulder. Now the back of my neck is exposed.

I feel his body so close to mine. Strangely, it excites me. I feel like I can’t move. Nor do I want to.

“Tell me something?” murmurs my host, nuzzling my neck.

“Anything,” I promise. My heart is beating faster.

“On the show, you were hypnotized by Lady Fang,” Mr. Malone chuckles. “You were her slave. Did you like that? Being put under someone else’s spell?”

I’m so confused. Is the room tilting? I want to kiss him, yet I know I shouldn’t. I can’t concentrate.

“Hypnotized…?” I mumble. “But that… that was just pretend… on the show…”

“I know,” agrees Mr. Malone, stepping even closer. He’s now pressed against me. “But did you like being a hypnotized slave?”

For reasons I cannot fathom, I close my eyes and moan, “…I loved it…”

I’m aroused. I feel like I’m being seduced and there’s nothing I can do about it. To my amazement, I feel powerless, captured… and I love it. I find that I want to surrender to this man.

Mr. Malone’s hands slide down my body, and then over my hips. He starts kissing the back of my neck, and I sigh as that silky white moustache brushes my skin. Its driving me wild. My eyes close all on their own.

In a slow, tortuous movement, Mr. Malone’s fingers reach under my skirt, then begin lifting my dress up. Slowly. I moan softly as I feel my hips and then rear end completely exposed to the air conditioning. I press against him, delighted to feel that rigid cock in his pants. Ohhhhh God… I want him.

In the back of my mind, I somehow know all of this is wrong. So wrong! This man is literally old enough to be my father. And he’s AFW’s new meal ticket. So why do I want to grab him and fuck him like crazy?

No, correction: I want **_him_** to grab **_me_** and fuck **_me_** like crazy. All I want is for his huge, thrusting cock to ram itself into my wetness, making me cry and squeal like a greedy slut. **_I want him_**… but I want him to take me.

Now Mr. Malone is breathing heavily. He’s pushed my dress up past my belly button, and I’m completely naked down to my shoes. For some strange reason, it now makes sense that I didn’t want to wear any underwear. I’m glad that-

Mr. Malone suddenly shoves me, and I’m forced to bend at the waist. I have to brace myself with both hands against the butterfly case. Normally, I’d be outraged at rough treatment… but now, it thrills me. “Oh, **_s_****_í s_****_í_**, Daddy!” I hear myself whimper in sheer joy.

**_Daddy?_** Where did that come from? Did I just say that?

I don’t fucking care. Mr. Malone’s rough hands and sliding down me again, and now they’re clamping onto my bared buttocks.

“Ah…” he growls, triumph in his voice. “If there’s one thing in the world that I love… it’s the ass of an **_extremely_** fit woman.”

He squeezes my tush, both lovingly and rough at the same time. Its like he’s trying to mold my butt into another shape.

I cling to the butterfly case, finding myself staring at the _Morpho_. I feel captured and pinned myself.

Mr. Malone continues to play with just my ass, grunting in delighted pleasure. “Yeah…” he rasps, “…oh yeah… So pert… So firm… Oh, so nice…”

As he plays, I remain immobilized, occasionally pushed against the case. Its almost as if he’s forgotten that I’m here, waiting to be fucked.

But I’m still crazy-horny. Weirdly, the more he plays with me, the more I seem to be falling under his spell. I suddenly have the urge to call him “master,” and pledge that I’ll be his naked slave, if only he commands it. I’m not thinking clearly. Maybe this is a crazy sex dream.

Mr. Malone separates my buttocks, then traces an appreciative finger down my spine, over my asshole, and then across my pussy. I half expect him to shove his finger into the poophole, but he merely taps my anus lovingly, just once. He’s not an anal guy, I guess.

But as his fingertips brush my clit, I can’t help but let out a wail of longing. This is becoming too much.

“You like that, **_don’t_** you, slave?” Mr. Malone hisses.

“I love it,” I whimper. “I love it so much, master!”

“Tell me what you want,” snarls the billionaire.

“I want you to fuck me,” I babble. “_O Dios_, I want you to fuck me so hard master, so hard, so hard, so hard…!”

I’m out of my mind. I literally feel like I have no control over myself or my feelings. All I want, more than oxygen, more than life, is to be fucked by this man’s cock. Its all I want.

Mr. Malone shoves me down even further, almost banging my forehead off the case. His hands vanish, and I hear his belt buckle being undone. I bite my lip and tremble in anticipation.

*********

The next morning, I arrive at the gym a little tired, but otherwise in high spirits. After claiming one of the better lockers, I change and then hop onto a treadmill.

About five minutes into my warmup, Ivy appears. She takes the treadmill next to mine, and then punches up a moderate speed.

“Well?” she asks me, _sotto voice_. “How’d it go last night?”

Ivy knows that I went off to Mr. Malone’s late night _soiree_ after our filming. Her face is alive with rampant curiosity.

I grin, slowing my treadmill down so I can gossip.

“It was fine,” I tell her honestly. “Mr. Malone had some of his Hollywood friends over, and I made some connections. And I have two auditions later this week.”

“…really?” exclaims Ivy, taken aback.

“Oh yeah,” I nod. And again, I smile. “It was a very good night. Nice and low-key. Not at all what I was expecting.”

“Huh,” is all Ivy can say. She seems almost jealous.

“That Mr. Malone,” I comment, raising the incline on my treadmill, “he’s such a perfect gentleman, you know? I spent the whole night with him, and not once did he make a stupid remark or even glance at anything but my eyes. I feel totally comfortable with him.”

I then go on to tell Ivy about the mansion, leaving out no detail.

“**_He has an on-staff masseuse?_**” Ivy almost shouts. Now I’m sure she’s jealous.

So I laugh. “Relax, girlfriend. Mr. Malone told me that he likes having these little parties once a week. He said next time, I can bring a girlfriend or two.” I hesitate, just to create suspense. “So… you wanna come?”

Ivy almost falls off her treadmill. **_Of fucking course_** she wants to come!

I grin broadly, then amp up the speed on my treadmill. Running helps tone those butt muscles, you know.

*********


	4. Hide-and-Seek Princesses

** _Three months later…_ **

We have only two more episodes of AFW to tape before we wrap for the season. Its been quite a ride for me. Hot Tamale and Warrioress battled their way through the villain pantheon, to claim the Tag Team crown from last year’s winners. But then Warrioress was captured and brainwashed by Dr. Sleaze, and suddenly Hot Tamale found herself fighting her own partner. It was three episodes before we were able to free Warrioress and return to the struggle for justice.

(What is with all the mind control this season? I got “hypnotized,” Ivy got “brainwashed,” and meanwhile Danica and Chrissy were voodoo-slaves in a separate storyline. Its like all the women on this show were given the line, “_Yes master, I obey..._”)

Meanwhile, the show’s rating decline has halted. We’re not adding new viewers, but we’re not bleeding any, either. Bernie still looks like he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but lately he’s been making some optimistic noises that we’ll be renewed for a Season Four.

I hope so. I’ve grown to like this show.

*********

As the season has progressed, my relationship with Mr. Malone has only gotten warmer… and more profitable. After every episode taping, it seems, I drive down to his Manhattan Beach mansion, where I meet with more of his friends. Its led to some auditions, and some minor parts that I can do on the side. I was a one-scene waitress on The Good Wife, for instance. The following month, I was a zombie victim on The Walking Dead. I had to scream as the horde grabbed me and ate my flesh. Ah, acting!

After my first Malone party, I brought Ivy up to the mansion. Of course, she found an excuse to steal away and try out the services of Carlos, Mr. Malone’s masseuse.

Well, once Carlos was done with her, Ivy became just as big a Mr. Malone fan as I am! Now we religiously attend all of Mr. Malone’s late night parties. What’s not to like? We get these mind-blowing massages, and then make contacts with others in Mr. Malone’s Hollywood orbit.

Ivy and I are having such a good time, we’ve started bringing all our female castmembers to the mansion, too. In fact, I think every woman on AFW has been there, at least once. Good times…

*********

After our second-to-last episode is finished, Ivy and I automatically head to our cars for our pilgrimage down to Manhattan Beach. Its like an automatic response now: we finish shooting, and we drive down to Mr. Malone’s. “Who’s carpooling?” I ask my fellow castmates as we exit the soundstage.

Joachim Gonzales stares at us ladies as we work out who is riding with whom. “You ladies are going up to that geezer’s house **_again?_**” he asks suspiciously.

“Shut up,” I snap reflexively. “First, Mr. Malone is not a geezer. He’s a sweet guy.”

“For real,” Jake Terrington asks, “how come only you ladies get invited? I’ve love to get in on these parties.”

But my sisters and I will have none of it. “Sorry dude,” Ivy says dismissively. “This is a girl thing.”

“But-“ Jake attempts.

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap, my temper rising. “Do you know how many things in Hollywood are accessible for men only? Like… oh, I don’t know, directing movies? Or studio executiveships? Or earning the top dollars? You can let us girls have a perk, for once.”

The men argue, but we ladies don’t care. Time’s wasting! We gotta get up to the mansion.

I swear, every week, I feel like one of those salmons that is genetically compelled to swim upstream to spawn. The urge to go back to Mr. Malone’s house gets stronger all the time. I guess I’m having a really great time there.

*********

There are twelve women wrestlers in AFW’s cast. Nine of us appear at the Malone Mansion that night, and are ushered into the Butterfly parlor. We are excited, chuckling amongst ourselves, looking forward to another great party.

To my surprise (and slight disappointment), we’re greeted by only Mr. Malone and what’s-his-name, Carlos the masseuse. There’s no other Hollywood types here? No other Friends-of-Tex? Aww… That’s half the fun of these things. Oh well.

The butler shuts the parlor’s double doors, and we AFW ladies are alone with our host, and his servant. Mr. Malone is grinning from ear to ear. We grin back.

“Evening, Mr. Malone,” I flirt, feeling strangely light-headed all of a sudden.

The billionaire tosses a grin my way, but doesn’t say anything to me. “Ladies,” he announces, his usual polite demeanor commanding the room, “we’re gonna do something a little different tonight, okay? Can everyone line up, please?”

Curious, we AFW women stand before the far wall, shoulder to shoulder. What’s Mr. Malone up to?

“Okay, do it to them,” Mr. Malone growls to Carlos.

The masseuse steps forward, looking miserable. Before I have a chance to think, he raises his hand and swipes it slowly through the air. “Ladies…” he says loudly, “…**_blank_**. And **_obey._**”

Suddenly, its like a curtain has descended over my mind. My curiosity vanishes. I can still see and hear, but I haven’t a care in the world. My body feels relaxed, and I don’t want to move a muscle. A sense of euphoria washes over me. Ah, this is nice.

Carlos looks over all of us, before commanding: “And now… **_present!_**”

My muddled thoughts vanish like a soap bubble. Now, I am turning around, to face the wall. That butterfly case is now before me. Absently, I note the bright colors under the glass.

At the same time, my fingers are undoing my belt. Then I’m unzipping my jean shorts and pushing them plus my underwear down to the carpet. I also quickly kick off my sandals. As quickly as possible, I have to get naked from the waist down.

And beside me, Ivy is also shedding her skirt, panties, and strappy shoes. She’s moving with automatic haste, as if her mind isn’t in command of her own arms and legs. Beside her, I can tell Chrissy is also stripping, as is the girl next to her. We all are.

And now, the lower half of every female wrestler is now completely nude. Some of us are wearing shirts or blouses that would drape down below our hips; so we hold our tops around our tight stomachs, to ensure there isn’t a scrap of cloth obscuring our exposed bottoms. We all bend forward slightly. I feel the cool air on both of my ass cheeks and on my hips.

Oh, this feels so right.

“Ahh…” breathes the billionaire, and his voice sounds triumphant. “They just automatically respond, don’t they?”

“They have been hypnotized many times, _señor_,” Carlos replies, sounding miserable. “They are conditioned now. They slip into trance without knowing it.”

“Mmm,” agrees Mr. Malone, moving to stand directly behind Ivy. In the corner of my eye, I can see his gaunt hands caress Ivy’s naked backside. My redheaded castmate closes her eyes and begins moaning softly.

“I don’t know what it is,” the billionaire says, not really addressing anyone, “but the female ass is the most beautiful thing in God’s creation, yeah? And the asses of **_these ladies_**… **_Gawd!_** When you mesmerized the VIP girls at that strip club, Carlos, I thought I was in ass heaven. But these ladies, they spend **_hours_** every day **_just exercising their butts!_** And look at them…!”

He moves to me, and I feel his fingers lift my buttocks. Suddenly, I’m aroused. Like, I feel faintly horny. Thoughts of dirty sex are sprouting up in my mind. I gasp, “Uhhhnnnnnnnmmmmmm…!”

“I’ll never know which one is my favorite,” Mr. Malone mutters absently. “Francisca, here, she might be the one. She was my first. But they’re **_all_** so beautiful…”

Without warning, he spanks me. Not terribly hard, but his fingers have some bite to them. I wince and then blush with erotic pleasure.

“Since you have what you want, _señor_…” Carlos begins, his voice nervous.

Mr. Malone strolls down the line of our nudity, sliding his hand under the row of exposed buttocks. “What?” he asks, cruelly.

“Since you have what you want,” Carlos tries again, “perhaps now you can help me with Little Alejandra?”

Mr. Malone, now at the other end of the line, doesn’t respond. I can hear the low mumbles of Danica as the billionaire fondles her.

“After all,” Carlos ventures, “I’ve done everything you’ve asked, no? And to get the paperwork would not be much effort for someone as powerful as you-“

“Its not my fault you entered this country illegally,” growls Mr. Malone. Despite my worshipful feelings toward him, I can tell: he’s been angered.

“I… yes… I know, but…” Carlos stammers.

“You’re damned lucky I haven’t had you deported,” Mr. Malone snarls. “It would be so easy, you know.”

There is raw fear in Carlos’ voice: “Please, _señor_, I am all that Alejandra has now! Now that her momma is dead-“

“That’s not my fault, either,” scoffs Mr. Malone. He’s moving back in my direction. “I gotta hand it to you, Carlos, you’re a very smart man. However you learned to hypnotize women while massaging them… well, that’s genius.”

“Its an accidental skill, _señor_,” mumbles Carlos.

“Whatever,” says Mr. Malone, now playing with Chrissy’s butt. “A real man would gladly exploit that kind of power.”

Chrissy gasps and then whimpers in silent delight. I find myself oddly jealous. How come she gets her butt groped so much? It never occurs to me how weird and submissive I’ve become.

“Exploitation. That’s real power,” Mr. Malone remarks, once again talking to himself. “Real power is seeing an opportunity and exploiting it. Fortune favors the bold. That’s why I’m the one in control, Carlos. That’s why the likes of you – and these silly women – and half of Mexico – will always serve the likes of me.”

“Ohhh…!” Chrissy groans. She sounds like she’s roiling in delight.

“Please, _señor_,” implores Carlos. “About Alejandra…”

“You gotta ruin the moment, huh?” Mr. Malone snarls. He spanks Chrissy, who sighs happily. “Y’may be a clever sonbitch, Carlos, but you’re also one **_dumb_** sonbitch. How you got this fool notion that you should adopt that little Mexican brat-“

“Alejandra is my sister’s child,” Carlos protests, his voice truly wretched. “I’m all she has. If she goes into American foster care system-“

“Then at least she’ll be raised by patriotic folk, who’ll teach her basic right and wrong,” frowns Mr. Malone. “Again: Not my problem.”

I hear Carlos sigh, resigned to defeat. “What more do you want, _señor_?” he asks.

Mr. Malone doesn’t answer right away. He’s returned to caressing Ivy. I envy her as she sighs in her pleasure.

“Next week is AFW’s last show this season,” Mr. Malone muses. “I’ve been thinking. Your power over the girls is absolute. So I can do whatever I want with them. **_Whatever_** I want.”

He steps behind me, and I am washed over by delight as his hands grasp me. “I want the ultimate fantasy experience,” Mr. Malone declares. “I want all the AFW women – **_all of them_** – naked from the waist down, and in their own wrestling ring.”

Carlos gasps. “But _señor_…!” he exclaims. “That is at the studio, no? How can you do such a thing in such a public place?”

Mr. Malone snorts. “Leave that to me. That sniveling producer, what’s his name… Bernie? That guy’s a spineless worm. He’ll give me whatever I demand.”

As he talks and his voice grows angrier, Mr. Malone’s fingers press against my muscles harder. I’m getting really, really wet.

“I’ll tell that Bernie guy that once the last show is taped, I want to host a private champagne party for just the lady cast of AFW,” the wealthy man continues. “And I want to do in on the set, long after the taping is done and the crew is sent home. And if he doesn’t comply…”

Mr. Malone grabs me fiercely. I cry out.

“…I’ll crush Bernie and his pitiful little show. He’ll cower and give me whatever I want.”

With a low growl, Mr. Malone adds, “I **_always_** get what I want.”

I can feel him standing close to me, now. Our legs are touching; his erect penis is poking me through his trousers. Oh God, will he take me?

“I think I’ll fuck Francisca, tonight,” Mr. Malone announces thoughtfully. “When I’m done, put the girls back in your hypno-spell, convince them we had the usual evening party, then send them home remembering nothing else. Just like usual.”

“Of course, _señor_,” Carlos agrees miserably.

I feel Mr. Malone tearing off his own belt. Then I am pushed forward, forcing me to stick my butt even closer to his waiting cock.

*********

For some reason, we female wrestlers of AFW hit the gym extra hard for the last show. I can’t speak for the other girls, but I want to work out like I never have before. Its like I’m possessed or something.

“But… you’ve already done your two hundred squats **_and_** the Stairmaster for an hour,” Amber my trainer protests in disbelief when I announce that I don’t feel like my butt has gotten enough of a workout.

“Not enough,” I declare, already heading back to the squat machine. “I want to do the whole regime all over again!”

Ivy and the others are throwing themselves into their workouts, too. Oh, our last show will be one musclebound display of sexiness!

*********

Under Bernie’s guidance, the writers have guided AFW Season Three into a showdown cliffhanger. It seems that Dr. Sleaze put mind control devices on all the women wrestlers, **_except_** Warrioress and Hot Tamale. Now fighting for freedom and sisterhood, we have to fight all of our sisters, to free them from their enslavement. The grand finale is when Tamale teams up with Desert Wind. When Desert Wind pins Dr. Sleaze, the evil mastermind is defeated forever. Happy ending!

I’m given a lot of fight time for this episode, and so I’m stiff and aching when the cast poses for final bows. The studio audience applauds, then the cameras go dark. I relax. Season Three is in the can! I’m no longer a wrestler, at least for a few months.

As the audience files out of the soundstage, Ivy slides up to me. “Hey, didja hear?” she murmurs. “Mr. Malone arranged for some sort of wrap party, just for us girls!”

“_¡Órale!_” I say, surprised.

*********

Like my castmates, I shower, then change back into my street clothes. I take a little longer than everyone else, and am the last to emerge from the locker room.

When I step back into the soundstage, the house lights are down. Only the bright spots that light the wrestling ring are lit, plus a small area where Bernie is giving a lame end-of-the-season speech to the cast and crew.

I linger for a while. Now that the season’s over, I’m nostalgic. I’ll miss these guys.

As Bernie rambles on, I hear the pattering of small feet behind me._ ¿Qué onda?_ I turn.

Scampering behind me is Alejandra! That adorable little Mexican girl I saw the first night I went down to Mr. Malone’s! She’s wearing a faded rainbow dress and plastic shoes with unicorns on them.

“Hey! _Psst!_” I whisper.

Alejandra skids to a stop, looking about wildly. She spots me, and then breaks out into a bright smile. I feel overjoyed inside.

“Alejandra!” a man gasps, and the I see Carlos, Mr. Malone’s trainer, racing to catch up with the little imp.

Huh. What’s Carlos doing here? A hopeful thought occurs to me: perhaps I can get a massage?

I look about, and sure enough, there’s Mr. Malone himself, unfolding from the soundstage darkness. He’s dressed in his trademark sports coat, string tie, stonewashed jeans, crocodile boots, and cowboy hat.

Our billionaire sponsor sees me and smiles back. He ambles on over.

“Evenin’ Francisca,” he murmurs, tipping his hat. Wow, this man is always such a charmer.

“Mr. Malone,” I reply, doing a mock curtsey.

“Great show tonight,” he compliments me. “I hope your coming to my little on-set afterparty, eh?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I promise him.

*********

When Bernie’s done with his sad little speech, there’s a round of limp applause. The male wrestlers have already plotted to celebrate by driving out to a Vegas strip club, where they will no doubt spend globs of money. And our overworked crew are throwing themselves a wrap party out in Pasadena. Soon, the soundstage is emptying.

But we female wrestlers are lingering. Mr. Malone is regaling us with stories of his youth, and although they aren’t that interesting, we are oddly enraptured.

When the last crewmember exits the soundstage, Mr. Malone pauses. “Hey Carlos,” he orders, his voice suddenly not so charming at all. “Go around, and make sure we’re **_completely alone_**. Got me?”

The masseuse, still holding little girl’s hand, looks worried. “But _señor_,” he mumbles. “I can’t leave Alejandra…!”

“Just do it!” snaps Mr. Malone, angry. “**_Gawd_**, why you had to bring her is beyond me.”

“There’s no-one to watch her,” Carlos says in a heavy voice.

At this moment, Alejandra looks up and my eyes lock with her’s. “Look, look, daddy!” she declares in Spanish, pointing at me. “It’s the princess lady!”

I smile. What a cute kid!

“I’ll watch her,” I say impulsively.

Carlos scans me, worry in his eyes.

“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “I love kids!”

Before Carlos can protest, I move to take Alejandra’s hand. “Hey little princess,” I purr to the girl in Spanish. “You wanna play with me while your daddy checks something?”

Alejandra’s eyes open even wider. “Play with **_you?_**” she squeaks. “Can we play hide-and-seek princesses?”

I laugh quietly. “Of course, sweetheart,” I tell her. “In just a minute, okay?”

“Go on,” I tell Carlos. “I’ll watch her. We’ll have fun.”

With a mixture of concern but gratitude on his face, Carlos releases the little girl’s hand. Then he hurries away.

*********

Mr. Malone keeps regaling my girlfriend costars, and I try to keep an ear on him. But Alejandra is just too cute. She’s quietly singing Mexican nursery rhymes, little songs that I haven’t thought about since I was her age. So I sit on my haunches, pull her close, and sing along with her. She’s so much fun.

Meanwhile, Mr. Malone is now glancing about as he’s talking, looking more and more annoyed by the minute. Finally, he drops his pretenses. “Where is that stinkin’ Carlos?” he fumes. “How long does it take to check the doors?”

I know why the masseuse is so delayed. Our soundstage is enormous, with a small labyrinth of corridors around the offices. Even experienced crewhands get lost sometimes. Carlos is completely new to our studio, and he’s probably groping about in the dark. We’ll be lucky if he ever makes his way back.

No matter. I’m having so much fun with Little Alejandra.

“Fine,” Mr. Malone huffs, coming to a decision.

He claps his hands together, once. My fellow wrestlers look at one another, wondering what he’s about to say.

“Now ladies,” drawls our sponsor, “I’d like to tell y’all something.” There’s an ugly gloating quality in Mr. Malone’s voice now; I’m not sure I like it. “For the last few months, you’ve been coming to my house, right? And do you know **_why_** you love coming back?”

“The catering?” Chrissy asks, making a lame joke.

“No,” replies Mr. Malone, his voice steely. “Its because y’all have been **_hypnotized_**. What’s more, your little female brains are **_loaded_** with my commands, and you will all obey me without question.”

Before any of us have a chance to react, Mr. Malone cries out, “**_Blank!_** And **_obey!_**”

Immediately, my thoughts fade. I lose track of where I am. I only want to obey him.

*********

In what feels like a dream, I rise to my feet, my arms flopping loosely at my sides. Mr. Malone is all I am aware of now, his voice, and his smiling face.

“That’s it, ladies,” the billionaire preens, rubbing his hands together. “Surrender, just like you always do. You go deeper and deeper. We don’t need Carlos anymore. You will all respond to me. And you will remember nothing afterwards.”

Yes. I will respond to him. I will remember nothing afterwards.

I can tell: my castmates are all spellbound, just like me. We will obey.

“Now then,” Mr. Malone says grandly, “let’s have some fun, shall we?”

“Princess lady…!” I dimly hear Alejandra call out softly. She tugs at my sleeve. “Princess lady…?”

But I can’t respond. I feel so relaxed, so tranquil. I don’t want to do anything except listen to what Mr. Malone has to tell me.

“Alrighty, ladies,” regales Mr. Malone. “When I count to three, y’all have an irresistible urge to take off everything you are wearing below the waist. You will want to be completely naked from the belly on down, get me? One… Two…”

As I accept what Mr. Malone is telling me, I hear little footsteps scamper away. They fade, but they’re heading off… to…

Waitaminute. They’re heading off to the construction area.

Oh fuck! Alejandra is running into the construction area! Fuck me, there are screws and saws and **_raw lumber_** and **_turpentine_** and CHARGED POWER TOOLS and **_INDUSTRIAL NAIL GUNS_** back there! The crew doesn’t lock anything up!

** _CHINGADOS!!!_ **

** _FUCK!!!_ **

In a flash, I snap out of my funk. I whirl around, and spot Alejandra disappear behind the black curtains.

Raw terror stabs my heart! Without another thought, I tear after that precious little girl!

I discover that while in my trance, I slipped off my shoes and socks, as my feet are now bare. No matter. I’ll worry about that later.

**_Sprinting like a cheetah_**, I dash behind the construction curtains, cursing the set guys for leaving little more than a ghost light on. That’s single white light bulb, one dinky little light to illuminate the jungle of supplies and tools back here. It doesn’t illuminate much.

“Alejandra?” I hiss, praying like fuck that the girl isn’t far and hasn’t touched anything. “Alejandra, baby???”

Where is she? Why don’t I hear anything? She… she couldn’t have killed herself already, could she? Oh, God. I’m the world’s absolute worst babysitter. I’ll be on the eleven o’ clock news: “**_Idiot Wrestler Allows Child to Play with Buzz Saw._**” My heart pounds.

“Alejandra!” I cry, fighting panic.

“**_BOO!_**” shrieks a little voice, just behind me.

I jump three feet, nearly screaming like the devil.

Behind me, little Alejandra doubles over in delighted laughter. “Got you, got you!” she teases, in a singsong voice. “Got you, Princess Lady!”

I’m so relieved, I forget my terror. _O Dios M__ío!_ It feels **_so good_** to know this little treasure is alive.

“You got me!” I say with mock-outrage. Then I swoop in to tickle her with relieved, gleeful fingers.

Alejandra squeals in delight, tossing her head and dancing in my touch.

*********

I spend another minute calming Alejandra down before I tell her, “C’mon, _niñita_, let’s get out of here.” I look about, pretending that the construction materials are frightening. “Let’s get out of this scary place.”

I’m half afraid that Alejandra will protest. But she shrugs her little shoulders and merely says, “_Bueno._”

Hand in hand, the two of us step back from the construction curtain.

As soon as I’m back on our wrestling set, my jaw drops. There’s a pile of clothes where my castmates were just a few minutes ago. _¿Qué pedo?_

But what really knocks the winds from my sails is what I see in the main ring. Up there, within the wrestling ropes, are my castmates, all standing in a circle, all facing outwards. Ivy, Chrissy, Danica, and Susan are facing me, and I can see these odd, blank expressions on their beautiful faces. And more notable; every woman up there isn’t wearing a scrap of clothing from their hips on down. I can see nude legs and crotches. And butts.

And in the center of the circle is Mr. Malone, wearing the expression of a thirteen-year-old boy allowed into the Playboy Mansion. His eyes are wide and his smile is huge and perverted. As I watch, he stands behind Ivy and Chrissy, fondling one of each of their buttocks.

“Heh… heh heh heh heh!” he laughs to himself. He seems to be unable to control his own glee.

The billionaire lightly smacks Chrissy, who sighs happily. Then he pivots to grope of the exposed bottoms behind him. He’s trying to sample every ass at once. His frantic chuckling never ceases.

I stare, shocked and revolted by what I’m seeing.

The heck? It takes a minute before my jolted brain realizes what’s happened. What did Mr. Malone say? _Its because y’all have been hypnotized_. I don’t know anything about hypnosis, but Ivy sure looks like she’s in a trance to me.

“Is he checking them for poopie?” Alejandra asks me, puzzled.

White-hot fury boils up inside me. I see red. For once, I’m glad I have my mother’s volatile temper.

I scoop up Alejandra in my arms, then storm over to the far wall. Mr. Malone is too involved in his perverted little ass picnic to notice me.

“Hold your ears, honey,” I tell Alejandra firmly. Then I pull the fire alarm.

*********

The loud **_CLANG! CLANG!_** **_CLANG!_** of the fire bell pierces the air with a frantic energy. In my arms, Alejandra makes a terrified face, then clamps her hands over her little ears. She begins crying. I hold her close.

But up in the wrestling ring, I see Ivy blink. Then Chrissy. Then all the other girls. The alarm is boring into their skulls. I know. Man, that alarm is **_loud_**.

Within the circle, Mr. Malone hesitates, confused. “Now, ah…” he shouts out, trying to reassert control.

Then the sprinklers go off.

That water is **_cold_** and our new state-of-the-art system coats everything in seconds. I yelp as the fury of the spray catches me off guard. Poor Alejandra wails even louder.

As one, all of the female wrestlers pop back into reality. The hypnosis that clouded their minds is gone. Now, all my castmates are slowly turning towards Mr. Malone, a murderous rage in their eyes. I can tell: **_they remember everything_**.

Mr. Malone’s smile has melted away. “Now… er, ladies…” he shouts, “listen t’me, okay? Y’all will return into hypnosis and obey my commands! Okay? Okay?”

Chrissy leaps forward, snapping the billionaire into a perfect headlock. Two other women grab his arms. The other wrestlers draw closer.

“Wait!” yells Mr. Malone, his eyes wide in terror. “Wait, wait, **_WAIT!!!_**”

Its too late for him. The most lopsided tag team match in AFW history is now taking place.

*********

Still clutching Alejandra, I push my way out of the soundstage doors and into the parking lot. It isn’t much quieter out here, but at least its dryer.

The little girl is wailing and sobbing. Poor thing, she’s frightened out of her wits. I feel awful. Maybe someday, when she’s a grown woman, I can explain…? I hope so.

I hear fire sirens in the distance, approaching rapidly.

Then, a figure appears from the shadows, rushing up to me! I step back instinctively, but… its Carlos! The masseuse has raw fear in his eyes. Before I can protest or explain, he rips Alejandra from my arms. And then he flees into the darkness of the night.

*********


	5. Epilogue

We get the news a few weeks after: American Freedom Wrestling has been officially canceled. Our ratings never improved enough for the network to consider us a viable property. That, plus the water damage to our set and the loss of our biggest sponsor, only sealed the fate of the show.

_Ni modo._

Of course, the cast is devastated. We spent so much time together, it’s almost unbelievable that we will never reunite in the same room again. How can that be? I can’t believe it.

But the one guy who I thought would be crushed by all of this is, remarkably, taking the news very well. “Ah, I always knew this was my last rodeo,” Bernie tells me as we say farewell during a cleaning-out party. “Besides, I gots fifty years’ worth of photos and scripts and production notes and God knows what else in the garage. Maybe I’ll write a Hollywood memoir?”

I hope he does. Bernie, for all his human flaws, is a born storyteller. I’ll be first in line to buy a copy.

*********

Before the AFW set is even bulldozed, I get a call from my agent. “Hey, you remember Addison Bloom?” he asks me.

Addison who? _Yo qu__é se_.

“Addison Bloom,” my agent coaxes me, annoyed. “Apparently he met you at a party? He’s a casting scout on Big Bang Theory. Wants to bring you in for an audition.”

Oh. Ohhhhhhh! Addison! Now I remember! I’d plumb forgotten about him.

*********

The scene begins. We’re in a gym, and I’m in my costume: tight-fitting workout clothes, with fake sweat sprayed on. I’m on the chest press, pretending to be pumping iron. The director told me to look like I’m really working hard, so I grimace.

Across the set, the regular Big Bang Theory cast is playing out the scene. One of the nerds (I don’t know the characters on this show) is being egged on to ask me out. “Go on, dude,” his friends urge.

Finally, the nerd approaches. “Excuse me…?” he asks lamely.

Without missing a beat, I deliver my only line: “**_I WILL BREAK YOU!_**”

The nerd goes pale and retreats. The studio audience laughs.

From the corner of my eye, I can see the director grinning. He likes my performance! Well, that can’t be a bad thing, can it?

*********

Its been three months since AFW was canceled, and I barely think about that old show now. I’m surprisingly in-demand for little bit roles for musclebound women. It seems I have an instinct for comedy. Most of the scenes I’m asked to play are just that Big Bang Theory scene all over again – I’m the fit, hot woman who intimidates the scrawny guys – but who cares? Its fun work.

I have two auditions tomorrow. Two! _¿No me lo creo?_

*********

Another month rolls by. My life is now a flurry of auditions, bit roles, and a lot of time-killing on many different sets. I’m busier than ever and making good money.

But to my surprise, I’m growing terribly lonely. I’m not a part of a regular cast now, so I don’t make friends and I never meet anyone long enough to make a lasting impression.

What’s more… and maybe this is just me… but I’m really starting to notice that I seem to be the only Southern Mexican actress in Hollywood. How can that be??? Oh, there are tons of Mexican girls in LA, and a small army of Hispanic and Latina actresses in the biz. But in shoot after shoot after shoot, I find myself alone, watching the other actors laugh and bond. I start to miss home.

*********

One Friday afternoon, I’m surprised that I have nothing on my schedule. Nothing!

“So take the rest of the day off,” my agent suggests.

I hardly know what to do with myself.

I’m about to head to the gym when my cell vibes. Its from Danica! Danica, my old castmate from AFW! I pick up, surprised at how excited I am to hear from her.

“_Hey girl,_” she says. Immediately, I smile.

“_Listen,_” Danica presses on. “_A bunch of us are getting together at that park on North Glenoaks and Amherst. Its kinda a mini-AFW reunion. You want to come?_”

Why not? It’s a beautiful day out. And I’m curious to see who shows up.

*********

I find my old castmates almost immediately. To my joy, there’s Danica and Chrissy. That Chrissy, she’s still as sour as ever. There’s also Jake Terrington and Jimmy Chen! **_Man_**, its good to see those guys!

Even Corey Lindowski is here. No longer “Victor the Voice,” he looks so weird without that signature tuxedo.

“Hey, will Ivy be here?” I ask hopefully, looking about.

“No, she’s in Italy,” Chrissy says, not without a little jealousy. “She’s a stuntwoman now. Shooting an action picture with Matt Damon, I hear. Lucky bitch.”

Oh. I’m disappointed. It would have been lovely to see Ivy again.

So it seems that all thanks to Mr. Malone’s parties, all the female wrestlers made good industry connections, and have found careers in the post-AFW world. Good for them! Danica is on a Baywatch knock-off show, and Chrissy is playing a sultry mistress on Days of our Lives.

Someone brought a portable charcoal grill; someone else lugged a cooler of cold beers. Soon the smell of char-broiled beef is making my tastebuds ache.

A minute later, my head almost explodes when I look over and see Amber, my ex-trainer, sinking her teeth into a double cheeseburger with gusto. She catches me staring.

“Wha’?” she says with her mouth full. Swallows. “You think I eat steamed fish and brown rice all the time? Nuh-uh.”

I laugh and roll my eyes. Its nice to know that even Uptight Amber has her dieting vices.

*********

As much fun as I’m having, I quickly realize that I still don’t fit in with my old AFW castmates. They laugh and talk about movies I haven’t seen, music I don’t listen to, books I’ll never read. And just **_who_** are the Kardashians, and **_why_** can’t we keep up with them? I feel left out. _Maldita sea._

How is it I only felt like a part of this group when Mr. Malone was hypnotizing me?

I sigh.

As I try to tune into yet another white person conversation about which I couldn’t care less, my eye wanders beyond our little group. There is a man and a small child walking along the edge of the park, lost in their own little world.

My breath catches short. I set down my beer, and quietly slip away from the AFW people.

In a few quick bounds, I cross the park and soon catch up to the man and girl. They hear me approaching and turn.

My heart leaps! It is! Its Carlos and little Alejandra! _¡__Maravilloso!_

Carlos recoils, his eyes fearful. Poor guy. He must jump whenever a stranger approaches.

But all is right with the world when Alejandra looks up at me and breaks into a huge, beaming smile. “Princess Lady!” she squeals in delight. “I missed you!” Her eyes glow.

Carlos relaxes and he smiles too. Alejandra has given me her blessing.

Surprised at the joy and relief I am feeling, I feel tears in my eyes. “Hello, honey,” I say gratefully. Then I drop to my knees and give that little girl the biggest hug I can.

She hugs me right back.

*********


End file.
